


A Pair of Fives

by TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [42]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (no attempts are shown), Dan punches Phil, Hopeful Ending, Insinuation of suicidal thoughts, Insomnia, It's an accident, Mentions of World War One, Nightmares (mentioned), PTSD, discussion of attempted suicide, friends who sacrifice everything for each other in completely different ways, serious injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: Dan comes home from war far too early. Phil is determined to pick up the pieces.
Series: Royal Flush [42]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/699969
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	A Pair of Fives

_ London, December 1917 _

Phil slid on the icy sidewalk, nearly falling flat on his face, and muttered a hurried apology to Mrs. Snatcher, whom he’d nearly knocked over with his flailing. Another two corners, with another two slides from him running full speed rather than walking on the icy ground, and he came to a stop at a familiar apartment complex.

Third floor. Second hall. Fourth door on the left.

Phil knocked rapidly on the Howells’ door.

He was let in almost immediately, as if they’d been waiting for him, though he supposed that wasn’t really a surprise. Not with all things considered. 

“He’s in his old room,” came the answer to his concerned glance at the bedrooms. “Just... be careful, alright? He’s still hurt frightfully bad.”

Phil nodded, venturing down the small hallway slowly, like he was scared of what he’d find waiting in Dan’s room.

He was scared.

The door was cracked open, just a bit. Phil put a hand on the door, peering in through the crack, half-stepping back at the form under the bedsheets.

Dan.

Dan had come home  _ alive. _

He swallowed and blinked back his tears, letting that sink in.

He’d known Dan had come back, he’d been told, but the news as to  _ why  _ when the war was still raging had brought a bubbling sort of worry for the worst happening between Dan’s discharge and arriving safely home.

He knocked on the doorframe.

“Dan?” he called softly. “It’s me. Phil.”

No response.

Phil hesitated. Was Dan asleep? They hadn’t said he was.

“I’m coming in, alright?” He slowly pushed the door open, giving Dan plenty of time to say something, anything, to tell Phil to leave (even though Phil knew he wouldn’t, not now, not after Dan’s last letter home).

Dan’s shoulder shifted slightly as Phil walked in, and his head turned a bit, but he said nothing.

Phil closed the door most of the way, quietly making his way over to Dan’s bed, where he sat on the edge.

They sat in silence for a long while.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Phil finally whispered. “I was so scared I wouldn’t see you again.”

A long moment of silence.

“You’re my best friend,” Dan murmured quietly, and there was something so strained in his voice that Phil’s own heart seemed to turn to glass. “I promised I’d come back to you.” He pushed himself up slowly, finally settling onto pillows to sit up, expression pained. “I did that.”

Phil blinked back tears, vision blurring slightly from them. “You did.” He took a steadying breath. “You did, Dan.” He wrung his hands in his lap. “You have no idea how glad I am.”

Dan grinned, just for a moment, a heartbeat of sunshine in a world of gloom—and immediately tensed up with pain, right arm holding his ribs. It was only then Phil realized Dan’s left arm was in a sling, bandages peeking out from under his sleeve.

“How are you feeling?” Phil asked carefully. He didn’t want to remind Dan of the contents of Dan’s last letter, but he needed to make sure his best friend was okay.

“Well, the painkillers they prescribed me give me rather vivid hallucinations, so I haven’t taken any in a few days.” Dan settled gingerly on his pillows again, a grimace worn clearly on his face. “Don’t tell my mother. Or my doctor, for that matter.” He coughed slightly. “The shrapnel only nicked my lungs. They said I should be fine somewhere between a few months and a few years from now.” He lifted the arm in the sling slightly. “This fellow got stabbed a lot, but I was lucky and nothing too major got damaged.” 

He grimaced. “The muscles in my back got sliced like I’m made of nothing but butter; they said that would take longer to heal. I’ve got a lot of physical therapy exercises to go through before I’m ready to function. The doctor isn’t sure if I’ll be fit for duty anytime soon.” He let out a long, shaky breath, something dark and overwhelming in his eyes, something tinting his world an even darker shade of gloom. “The shrapnel almost hit my spine, you know.” He laughed bitterly. “If it had, I’d be dead, or paralyzed.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m out of the war for good, in any case.” An empty breathed laugh. “Whole lot of good it does me now.”

Phil frowned, leaning forward. “Dan, you’ll be okay. It was a miracle you came home. We’ll get through this.”

“Yeah,” Dan said quietly. Sarcastically. “A miracle.” A long, long pause, where he was clearly struggling to keep himself composed. “Everyone else on the squad died, you know that?” He looked up, blinking back tears. “All four of them- I’m the only one who made it, and only ‘cause I was in the back and moving around to get a better look from the other side.”

Phil put his hand on the top blanket, offering Dan comfort without forcing touch on him.

“I’m sorry, Dan,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have let you go in my place.”

Dan shook his head. “No- no, I-” he swallowed. “You wouldn’t have survived that place, Phil. Even if you made it back... it would have crushed what made you Phil.” He shook his head again, almost frantically, gaze unfocused. “I made it, but only barely, I- don’t- you-” His shoulders shuddered. “Don’t- I’ve seen too many friends die, don’t-”

Phil reached out and grabbed Dan’s hand, cutting the 18-year-old short and focusing his gaze on their two hands.

“Dan. Don’t think about it, not right now. Let’s work on getting you better, okay? Then you can come to work with me at the school.”

“They won’t want me,” Dan pointed out, swallowing. “I hardly passed myself, they don’t want me teaching.”

“Maybe not,” Phil admitted, “but come spring they’ll need a gardener. Haskins is retiring.”

Dan let out a slow breath. “Maybe. We’ll see. Is... that okay?”

“Yes, Dan. It’s okay. Healing is more important.” Phil looked him in the eye. “We’ll get through this.”

♣♥♠♦

_ London, April 1918 _

Dan moved slowly now, but he worked on the landscaping of the small school where Phil taught steadily. It wasn’t the best the school had ever seen, but it was decent, and that was good enough.

Good enough.

Good enough was his and Dan’s motto for now. Good enough got them earning rent each month—especially now that Dan had moved in with Phil to get away from his parents’ constant concern. Good enough put food on the table. Good enough meant they only burned some of it.

Good enough meant when Dan lingered on the bridge they crossed to get home every night, he still followed Phil when his name was called. Even if it took a few times for him to look up from the river below.

Good enough meant when Dan woke up screaming at night, at least on the nights he managed to sleep, he didn’t apologize for waking Phil and just took the stupid cup of tea offered him at stupid two in the morning.

Good enough meant Dan only sometimes stared into nothing while cooking supper.

Even if that was happening more and more often these days.

"Dan?" Phil asked, walking up and taking the spoon from Dan's still hand, moving the pan from the heat. "Dan, you're in London. Our flat."

Dan blinked slightly, as if shaking himself back to the real world. He looked at Phil first, he always did, then shook his head.

"I'm..." He let out a long breath. "I'm going to go check the door lock."

"You've checked it three times tonight," Phil countered. 

”I know. I just...” Dan shook his head again, then leaned against the counter. “It’s... fine.”

Phil pursed his lips as he stirred, spoon scraping the burnt food at the bottom of the pan, but didn’t press the issue. He’d learned that hardly went well, at least.

♣♥♠♦

_ London, May 1918 _

Phil pressed the chunk of ice onto his eyebrow, watching Dan pace around the living room through one half-closed eye. It was the middle of the night, which explained why they were both in their nightclothes—and why Dan had been screaming in his sleep.

It did not explain why Dan had reflexively decked him and rolled out of bed before he’d even woken up. Phil had just gone to check on him, was all.

“I’m so- so sorry.” Dan put his right hand to his mouth, knuckles pressed tightly into his cheek. “I- I-”

“It’s okay, Dan,” Phil comforted. “It’ll heal up in no time.” He sat up, wincing as suddenly the bruise hurt all over again, and nodded at Dan. “How’s your hand?”

Dan looked down at his left hand, flexing the fingers slowly. “I think I broke a few bones on your face,” he admitted.

“We should get that taken care of, then,” Phil said, moving to stand.

Dan shook his head, tucking his injured hand behind his elbow as he crossed his arms. “We can’t afford that, Phil.”

“We can’t afford you to be out of work because your fingers heal wrong,” Phil said gently. He stood, removing the ice from his face. “I’ll put this back in the icebox and then we can walk over.”

“Well-” Dan let out a breath. “We can’t go in our pajamas, Phil.”

“Go get dressed, then.”

“What are we going to tell him?”

“Hmm.” Phil glanced around the kitchen, gaze landing on the stove. “We were making supper and accidentally slammed a cabinet on your hand and you bumped the pitcher on the counter, which spilled water all over the floor, and when I went to pick it up I slipped and slammed my face into the counter.” He paused, glancing at the clock on the wall. “We thought we’d be alright without medical attention, but the swelling on your fingers hasn’t gone down, and we’re worried they’re broken.”

Dan narrowed his eyes. Phil smiled winsomely.

“You know, that’s just ridiculous enough that it just might work.”

Phil laughed. “Of course, Danny boy.” He put the ice back in the icebox. “I’ll go get dressed myself. Let’s get going.”

Dan ducked out of the living room.

Phil let out a long breath, fingertips touching his new bruise gingerly. He grimaced. He could definitely see why Dan could have broken something. It certainly hurt enough.

He threw the ice rag on the counter, then moved to get dressed.

He knew the real reason Dan was concerned about what Phil would tell the doctor: nightmares so violent and disturbed they were making it hardly possible for Dan to sleep and had terrified him so much he’d instinctively lashed out and hurt Phil? Combined with how little sleep Dan already got, and his tendency to stare out of windows, dark shadows of times gone by flickering in his eyes, that was a recipe for him to get taken away and put in an institution.

They couldn’t do that. Dan wouldn’t survive in one of those. Phil couldn’t lose him like that.

♣♥♠♦

_ London, June 1918 _

Phil drew himself up to his full height, giving the man at the door an even look. “It’s the middle of the night. There’s no reason for you to be here.”

The man shifted slightly, and Phil got another good look at the man’s uniform, at the symbol on it. The Sanatorium.

He knew  _ exactly  _ why the man was here.

“Your neighbors reported Mr. Daniel Howell tried to take his own life last week,” the man said grimly. “I’m here to collect him, for his own safety.”

Phil shook his head. “No.”

“No?” The man blinked, then shook his head. “Mr. Lester, it’s not a yes or no matter. His safety and health depend on it.”

“And I’m telling you it doesn’t.” Phil shook his head again. A lot of that going around. “I can’t allow you to take him.”

“The reports included neighbors hearing screaming through the walls,” the man pressed. “He’s clearly unsettled.”

“Frankly, sir,” Phil said bluntly, “think of the precedent you’re trying to set. If you force your way in to take him, you’ll have to take every single veteran forced into this position by the government demanding service in the war.”

The man hesitated.

“I am here to watch him.” Phil continued. “There’s nothing you can do for him there that I haven’t already been helping him with.”

“Legally... you cannot stop this unless you’re his caretaker,” the man said slowly.

“Legally, you can’t take him unless you have a warrant.” Phil raised his eyebrows, fully aware the law would side with the man from the sanatorium on this one. But if it bought them time... time for what, he didn’t know, but time.

“I can get one easily.” The man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look. It’s late. Just... let me do my job.”

“What’s required to become his caretaker?” Phil asked.

“Uh... it’s... well...” The man shrugged. “There’s a bit of paperwork. Nothing too serious.”

“If I get that in, can he stay with me?”

“Well...” The man let out a breath. He seemed to age a few years in front of Phil. “It’s... not that easy.” He shook his head. “Given... given the circumstances, we’d have to come to check on him in six months, and if he’s not improved to the point of stability, then we have to take him anyway.”

Six months. What was that... November or December?

Phil thought of the box under the clean bedsheets in the closet, of how much money was in it.

“Okay. Let’s start there, then.”

The man nodded wearily. “Alright. I’ll stop by tomorrow evening with the paperwork, then, and then you’ll be on the clock for six months.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I... hope you’re sincere about this, Mr. Lester.”

He was. How could he not be?.

“Then I’ll see you at a reasonable hour tomorrow.” Phil moved to close the door. “Good luck with the soldiers coming home, sir.”

The man sighed. “Yeah.” He shook his head, turning to leave. “Yeah, I guess.” A pause, where he glanced over his shoulder. “Take care of him. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Of course.”

♣♥♠♦

_ London, August 1918 _

Dan let out a long breath, leaning on the railing and looking over the ocean stretched endlessly before of them.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked quietly, voice hardly audible over the waves lapping against the side of the ship. “It’s not too late to turn back.”

“I’m sure,” Phil said, leaning on the railing next to him, his knee bumping the suitcase carrying all the belongings he had space to bring (most of which were sentimental, though he had made sure to pack spare clothes). “Besides, we’re always hearing about how great America is. I’m sure we’ll be able to find a good life there.”

“You have a good life here,” Dan pointed out. “You don’t have to come with me. The school will take you back in a heartbeat, no questions asked.” It was an offer they both knew wouldn’t be extended to Dan.

“You’re my best friend,” Phil said, a bit hurt and allowing that emotion to show. “Of course I’m going to go with you.” He looked out over the ocean himself, at the deep blue stretching far below and the sky above stretching just as high above. Nothing but blue. “There’s a big wide world waiting for us to discover it. I know we can find happiness.”

Dan hummed softly.

“Besides, with everyone coming back soon, I don’t think we’ll have an easy time keeping jobs here. Things have been rough enough.” He bumped Dan gently, offering him a smile. “Who knows what new opportunity we might find when we get to our new home?”

“You have the papers?” Dan looked over, raising an eyebrow.

Phil nodded. “Two copies, one in each of our luggage. They’re not gonna take you to an institution. I promise.”

Dan’s shoulders slumped, as if a great weight slid off them all at once. “Alright. Alright. Well… where are you thinking? New York? I’m sure there are a great many opportunities there.”

“Maybe,” Phil admitted. “It’s a big place, though.”

“I don’t mind living in a city.”

“No, but New York is easily half the size of London. There are plenty of cities with fewer people—less competition for jobs, you see.” Less hustle and bustle for Dan. They both knew neither of them would do well in a small town, they needed business to distract themselves from their desperation to survive, but Phil was worried about too  _ much _ hustle.

Dan laughed lightly. “Where, then? Philadelphia? Washington? Boston?” He paused. “Admittedly, my knowledge of American cities is limited, but I think those are all coastal cities. I’d like to stay next to the ocean.” He flashed a grin, a genuine grin, the first grin Phil had seen since Dan came home. “San Francisco is over on the other side of the country, I think.”

“I like the sound of Boston,” Phil admitted. “Much easier to spell than Philadelphia, at least. And it’s old. Has a rich history. It would be nice to live somewhere that was around back when the states decided they wanted to rebel.”

“Oooh, the history aspect is a good one,” Dan admitted. “So, Boston, then?”

“Well, first New York, because that’s where this is headed, but I’m sure we can get to Boston from there.” Phil grinned back.

Dan let out a long breath and smiled into the ocean, the sky and ocean beginning to tinge with the colors of the sunset. “Alright. Boston it is.” He glanced over. “And if we don’t like it, we can always move, right?”

“Of course.” Phil shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll like it, though. It sounds like a civilized place. No street gangs, I’m sure.”

“They tried to turn the entire ocean into a cup of tea, Phil.” Dan rolled his eyes. “I’ll believe  _ civilized  _ when I see it.”

♣♥♠♦

_ Boston, October 1918 _

The door to the small apartment opened slowly, revealing worn walls and floors. The previous tenants had left a chair and a table in the kitchen, and a tattered and moulding curtain, but it was clean (well, outside of the spattering of mould on the windowsill of that curtained window) and had both an icebox and a stove in the kitchen.

“We’re going to have to put our wardrobes in the living room,” Dan observed, poking his head into the single bedroom. “The room’s big enough for two beds, though.” A soft laugh. “Barely.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re going to have guests for a while,” Phil said. “When we do we’ll just have to cram them in there, and then pull them out after they leave.” He stood in the middle of the living room, pursing his lips at the small fireplace. “I think we need a couch here.” He pointed to another spot. “A big old chair there, and a bookcase over there.”

“I think we should put up blue curtains,” Dan agreed. “Get a window box with some flowers, maybe some herbs.”

“A teapot, for sure.”

“We can put a rug here.”

“Oh! We can change the tablecloths with the seasons. That would be a nice touch.”

“Mmhm. And candles! And things that smell nice.”

“A big coffee table, here. One of those nice ones, but we’ll take what we can get until then.”

♣♥♠♦

_ Boston, November 1918 _

A knock sounded on their office door, and Dan and Phil looked up from their work to see their boss standing in the doorframe.

“Good morning, sir,” Phil greeted. “We’ll have this set of edits out for tomorrow out in just a few hours for the typesetters.”

“Actually,” their boss leaned in the doorframe, “I need you to do something different for a bit. A bunch of our reporters have caught influenza, and I need someone to cover the Kjellberg charity dinner. The Kjellberg boy is in charge of it this year, so he’s not going to know who to expect, and normally I’d send Johnson or Kellies, but they’re both out with the flu. So you two are on the story.”

Dan and Phil exchanged an incredulous look.

“Really, sir?” Phil asked. “That’s wonderful!” He immediately froze. “Not that Johnson or Kellies are ill-”

“I expect with how many people are getting sick you’ll be covering stories for a bunch of people this winter.” Their boss interrupted, waving off Phil’s explanation with a shrug. “As long as you do well at this, in any case.” He handed them an envelope decorated in dark blue art deco. “This is the press pass for it. Wear your best. Borrow something from someone if you need to. It’s a routine assignment, just make sure you note how much is donated and to where, and how close that was to the goal. As long as you don’t get absolutely spifflicated, you should be alright.”

Dan took it, then opened the envelope and blinked at the invite within. “This is for tonight, sir.”

“You’d better get cracking at it, then, shouldn’t you,” their boss agreed, standing. “I expect you to work late if it means you can get it out in time for the typesetters to get it into tomorrow’s paper; it’d mean we’d be the first to get it out, and it would absolutely destroy the competition.” He grinned widely.

“We’ll do our best, sir,” Phil promised.

“Fantastic.” Their boss clapped his hands together loudly. “Off you go, then.” He paused. “Oh! Use Johnson’s camera, see if you can get any good shots. It’s worth it coming out a day later if we have a stellar picture to go along with it. It should be in his desk drawer; I’ll open it up with the master key for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Their boss left, and Dan and Phil just looked at each other for a long moment.

“This could be our chance to break into the reporting world, Phil,” Dan breathed. “Our chance to see the city, see the people, get up in the action- this could be it.”

“We’d better get going, then.” Phil stood, patting the pile of edited articles they’d just finished. “You hand these off to Jeffries. I’ll go find someplace we can get formal suits from for the night.” He grinned at Dan. “Let’s charm Kjellberg.”

Dan grinned back, standing enthusiastically. “Let’s.”


End file.
